The Gift

My own son, at three and a half, mirrors my actions in so many ways. In me, he finds his bravery, comfort, and joy. He laughs my laugh and sillies my sillies.

It’s an awesome responsibility, one full of mini-failures. For he also takes on my impatience, reads my fatigue at the end of a hard day. But those failures are couched in love, and that is a banner that I hope envelops all. My son knows he is treasured. He understands that he should value others the same.

What a gift, to be a father. It’s one I try never to take for granted. Happy Father’s Day to all of you fathers and non-fathers out there.

“The Gift” by Li-Young Lee

To pull the metal splinter from my palmmy father recited a story in a low voice.I watched his lovely face and not the blade.Before the story ended, he’d removedthe iron sliver I thought I’d die from.

I can’t remember the tale,but hear his voice still, a wellof dark water, a prayer.And I recall his hands,two measures of tendernesshe laid against my face,the flames of disciplinehe raised above my head.

Had you entered that afternoonyou would have thought you saw a manplanting something in a boy’s palm,a silver tear, a tiny flame.Had you followed that boyyou would have arrived here,where I bend over my wife’s right hand.

Look how I shave her thumbnail downso carefully she feels no pain.Watch as I lift the splinter out.I was seven when my fathertook my hand like this,and I did not hold that shardbetween my fingers and think,Metal that will bury me,christen it Little Assassin,Ore Going Deep for My Heart.And I did not lift up my wound and cry,Death visited here!I did what a child doeswhen he’s given something to keep.I kissed my father.